At Age 5, My Two Older Siblings And I Became Orphans
My parents died in a car accident when I was 5 years old. My brother was 9, and my sister was 7. My parents owned a small café in town, but it was drowning in debts and loans. After they passed, the café and our house were both sold to cover the debts.
In a matter of weeks, we lost everything—our home, our parents, our sense of safety. We ended up in a foster home, confused and heartbroken.
That’s when I realized the true power of brotherly and sisterly love.
My brother ate less so my sister and I could have more. Even at 7, my sister tried to take care of us, helping wash our clothes with her tiny hands.
Then one night, my brother gathered us in our room, eyes determined despite the fear in them.\
“Mom and Dad had a dream,” he started firmly.
“They wanted the café to become something special. A place people could feel safe in. They used to say it could be our future, too. And even if we don’t have it anymore… I think we should still try. One day, we’ll bring it back. We’ll bring them back. Not their bodies, but what they stood for.”
That night, in that dim room with peeling wallpaper and a leaky window, we made a promise:
We would rebuild the café someday. No matter how long it took.
Foster care wasn’t easy. We got bounced around—two homes here, another one there. But we stuck together. Somehow, always together. My brother, Ezra, kept reminding us of the goal. My sister, Liora, wrote recipes in a notebook that she carried everywhere. Me? I watched. I listened. And I remembered.
When Ezra turned 18, he aged out of the system. Most kids at that point disappear into the world. But he didn’t. He got a job at a pizza place, then started delivering groceries at night. He sent every dollar he could back to support us until we could join him.
I still remember that small apartment he rented. It was barely big enough for a twin bed and a broken-down futon. But when Liora and I walked in, Ezra just smiled and said, “It’s home now.”
We kept our promise alive by talking about it every Sunday night. That was “dream night.” We’d sit on the floor with cheap takeout and sketch out our future café. Liora wanted it to have local art. Ezra wanted a bookshelf wall. I wanted pancakes at any hour of the day.
But life isn’t a straight road, and we knew that.
There were setbacks—Liora’s college tuition, my health scare at 16, Ezra losing his job during a factory shutdown. Every time we got close to saving enough, something pulled us back.
But we kept going.
At 21, Ezra found a run-down old storefront near where Mom and Dad’s café used to be. The place was a mess—cracked tiles, rotting counters, and graffiti covering the walls. I remember standing there thinking, This looks nothing like the café I remember.
But Ezra just turned to us and said, “This is it. This is where we begin.”
It took us three years to fix that place up. We painted walls, learned how to do tiling from YouTube, and begged secondhand furniture stores for discounts. Liora perfected her coffee and baking skills—turns out she had a gift for it. I handled the social media and design. Ezra did the heavy lifting—literally and emotionally.
We named the café “Second Sunrise.” Because that’s what it felt like. A new morning after too many nights.
Opening day?
I won’t lie—I cried.
People from all over town came, including a few who remembered our parents. One older woman brought in a photo of our mom behind the counter and said, “She used to know my name and how I liked my coffee. Every day. I’ve missed that.”
That day, we ran out of food by 3 p.m. We didn’t expect the turnout.
But more than the lines or the sales, what meant the most was this one quiet moment after close. We were cleaning up. The lights were dim. And Ezra said, “We did it.”
Then he pulled out a tiny notebook.
Liora gasped. “Is that…?”
It was the same notebook she carried as a kid, the one with recipes and doodles and names of made-up café drinks. Ezra had kept it safe all this time. We didn’t say much. We just sat there on the floor again, like we used to, letting the silence say everything.
Today, five years later, Second Sunrise is more than a café. It’s a community spot. We host open mic nights. Liora teaches kids how to bake on weekends. We’ve even hired teens who are aging out of foster care—just like we once did.
And sometimes, I catch myself looking around, imagining Mom and Dad in the corner booth. Smiling. Maybe a little proud.
Here’s what I’ve learned: Family isn’t just who you’re born to. It’s who stands with you when things fall apart. And dreams… they don’t expire. They wait. They wait for the right hands and hearts to carry them forward.
So if you’re carrying a dream that seems impossible—don’t let go. Even if the road takes years, even if the path twists—you’re not failing. You’re becoming.
And I promise, it’s worth it.